


Play Nice

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wishes Sherlock were more forgiving of their clients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Nice

"It's my husband, you see," said the woman perched on their sofa, her back as straight as a rod. "I believe he's - he's cheating on me!" 

Sherlock didn't even stop his pacing. "Obviously."

"His green trousers are missing, you see, and - pardon?"

"He is," said Sherlock, "Quite obviously cheating. Were I him, I'd dally behind your back as well, though I'm sure you've got more than enough physical proof at your disposal."

"Sherlock!" John snapped. The woman let out a wail.

"What? It's clearly apparent. For Godssakes, just look at that horrible cardigan she's wearing, buttoned all the way up - "

John hurried over to the woman's shoulder and put a comforting arm about her. "There, there, now," he said softly, glaring at Sherlock over the (admittedly) quite distasteful sweater. "Mister Holmes doesn't mean it. Why don't you tell me the rest before we go jumping to conclusions?" 

"I don't need to hear 'the rest'," Sherlock groused. "I meant what I said. In fact, he's probably off with some pretty young girl right now."

The woman pushed John off her and stood, tears rolling down her face, lips pulled tight. "I've had quite enough, thank you," she said. John was impressed by her fortitude - her back was still pin straight, and her voice hardly quivered at all. "I'll be leaving. Don't bother to call."

As soon as the woman's back had turned, Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and threw himself onto the sofa. "Hardly warrants _that_ sort of reaction." 

John waited to hear the door slam before he replied. " _Sherlock._ What on _earth_ \- they've been married for _years_ , and you told her, just like that - what did you expect, for chrissakes?" 

"His infidelity was, as I said, quite obvious."

"Maybe not to her!" he scolded. "Okay, maybe she did know, but it isn't such an easy thing to admit to yourself, is it? And why'd you have to go and - and call her unattractive?"

"I most certainly did _not_ ," said Sherlock. "I merely insinuated. It was part of the evidence, and I needed to present it as such."

"Part of the - _no_ , Sherlock, it wasn't _part of the evidence_."

"It - "

"And even if it was, why would you ever, ever - ? They're our _clients_ , Sherlock. You can't belittle them, or insult them, or, or, or call them ugly!"

"And why not," said Sherlock. He was stretched out on his back now, eyes shut, hands folded together on his chest. John began to sputter.

"Why _not_? Because, because they're human beings! Because we ought to at least _not_ make them feel terribly about themselves! Because _they're the ones paying us_ , and we certainly aren't being given any money to sit and insult them outright!" 

"The money doesn't matter."

"Perhaps not to you, but my family hasn't got such deep pockets as yours. Listen, Sherlock - if you refuse to behave, if you continue to insist on this - this _nonsense_ , we won't get anyone to come back. The word will spread. Someday, if you keep on being so irritating, there won't be any more cases."

This caught Sherlock's attention. His eyes opened a tiny bit and swiveled around to face John. "That isn't true," he said petulantly. "I'm the best. They'll have to keep coming."

"You might be the best, but there are others, Sherlock. Maybe they aren't as fast as you, but they won't question their clients' intelligence, and they certainly won't call them unattractive." 

"I never - "

"You'll have Lestrade, but there're only so many local murders, aren't there? I know how you get in between serial killers. It's why you allowed this whole business in the first place, isn't it? Something to do? But you won't even have that, I promise you, if you keep treating these people the way you do."

Sherlock grunted and flung himself upright. John jerked away, startled. "Then how," Sherlock murmured, "should I go about treating them?"

John realized his mouth was gaping open a little. It was odd to have the detective in this position, to look down into that sharp face from above. His heart sped up. "Just be kind to them, you dolt," he stammered. 

Sherlock noted his flushed cheeks and rapid breaths, filing them away quietly for later. "You'll have to - " he began, and was cut off by the doorbell. 

John cursed under his breath. "Client," he said, and gave Sherlock a pointed look. "Play nice." 

Sherlock frowned at John's retreating back. _Play nice._ What, exactly, was that supposed to mean? He wasn't sure exactly, but John's red face had given him some tangentially related ideas. 

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

This client, much like the one before her, was perched uncomfortably on the sofa, hands fidgeting in her lap. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, a little on the pudgy side, her face plain and thickly freckled. This time Sherlock had declined to pace, instead deciding to sit to the left of the client's bare knees on a peeling white chair he'd fetched from the kitchen. He clasped his hands in front of him and gave her his most winning smile. She looked a bit put off. 

John looked ready to begin the interview, so Sherlock spoke before he had a chance. "What's your name, darling?" 

"Savannah." 

"Savannah. What a lovely name. One of my favorites." He could practically hear John's eyes roll, and he smiled even wider. "Tell me, Savannah, what brings you here? It couldn't be boy trouble, could it? Don't tell me your boyfriend's cheating on you. I wouldn't believe it, anyway." 

Behind him, John let out a muffled _oh my God_ into his hands. The girl shook her head, brows furrowed. "No, nothing like that. It's about a necklace, see? My grandmother's. A private collector expressed interest, so I was taking it over to give him a peek, but I got jumped before I reached the place. The bloke who attacked me asked right for it, too. Showed me his gun and said 'give me the necklace'."

"'Give me _the_ necklace', you say? I see. You were carrying it in a package, then? Unmarked?" 

"I - well, yes." Her eyes opened wide: she was impressed. 

"I see. Do go on," Sherlock said, feigning interest. 

"Well, that's about it - I gave it to him, and he ran off. It's quite nice, you know. I've got a picture right here, look," she said, rummaging in her bag, removing a browned square of paper and proffering it to him. It was a portrait of a dumpy, middle-aged woman from the shoulders up, a bejeweled necklace hanging from her thick neck. 

Sherlock pretended to examine it. "That is a lovely necklace, and on such a lovely woman," he simpered. "I daresay it runs in the family." 

The girl giggled. John tried to snatch the photograph from him, but Sherlock held it out of his grasp with his much longer limbs. 

"This case is very intriguing," he announced. "I want to do some research, but I'd love to see you again - to go over some of the details. Perhaps we could meet about it later? Over a cup of coffee?" 

"Oh, um, yes," the girl stammered. "Of course. Let me just - have you got something to write with? So I can jot down my number?" 

Sherlock handed her a pen, and she hesitated only a moment before flipping over her grandmother's portrait and scribbling her number on the back. She pushed it back to him. 

"I'll be looking forward to meeting again, Miss Savannah," Sherlock purred, his eyes locked with hers. She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes at him, leaning in a bit. His knee brushed against hers. 

A strangled sort of squawking noise gurgled out of John, and he stumbled to his feet. "Right," he said, grasping the girl's forearm and tugging her off the sofa. "We're very busy at the moment - Sarah, was it - so please, if you wouldn't mind - ? Sherlock and I have several important things to do, cases to consider."

"Okay," she said hesitantly, stumbling as she was ushered out the door. She peered over her shoulder at Sherlock. "I'll see you, then?" 

"Sure," John said, and closed the door on her. 

"Gracious, John," Sherlock drawled. "That was hardly hospitable." 

"What in God's name was _that,"_ said John. 

"Was what?" 

"You know perfectly well what, Sherlock." 

"I'm afraid not. I was merely following your advice." 

"My - _pardon?_ I didn't advise you to _pick up_ our clients, Sherlock." 

"And? Perhaps I wanted to," said Sherlock, his eyes pulled wide. He saw John's hands curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides. "I've got the right to flirt with whomever I'd like to, John." 

John let out a strangled laugh. "You utter git," he said. "You ponce. Married to your work, are you?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I never complain when you date girls," he said, which was true - at least, he'd never complained to the doctor's face. "I should think you'd allow me the same." 

"It's different, Sherlock - our clients! They're our clients, for God's sake." John said, looking down at his friend's face. Those two haunting eyes cut into him, yet he couldn't look away. His breath hitched, and Sherlock saw. 

"Fine, then," said Sherlock smoothly. "I'll leave our clientele alone." 

"Good," John said, breathless. He was closer than he thought he'd been earlier - it seems he'd inexplicably been leaning in towards the detective as he spoke. 

Sherlock chortled. "You seem awfully upset." 

"Of course I'm upset! You're..." 

He paused, unable to find the words he needed. His eyes were fixated on Sherlock's lips, pink and soft in his pale, harsh face. 

"If I didn't know any better," Sherlock said, reaching forward, "I'd think you were jealous." He placed his hands on the doctor's outer thighs, holding him in place. John swallowed dryly, his gut twisting warmly at the touch.

"Sherlock," he breathed, and then, before he could think, before he could second guess himself, he bridged the gap between them, bending down, crushing his lips against the other man's. Sherlock responded immediately, opening his mouth and welcoming John's tongue with his own. This was no chaste, sweet kiss - it was hungry, and hot, and wet, ad desperate, and the feel of it made John gasp softly against Sherlock's teeth. He could feel his cock growing stiff in his trousers and, embarrassed, tried to arch his hips away, but Sherlock pulled him closer, standing from the chair, so their bodies pressed together in full. Now John could feel Sherlock's own erection press against his stomach, and he couldn't help but grind himself up against him. This time, it was Sherlock's turn to gasp into his mouth. The kiss became deeper, their tongues twining together. 

Sherlock's hands now plucked at John's jumper, and he obliged, breaking the kiss to lift it - and then the shirt beneath it - over his head and then casting both to the floor. Sherlock shed his jacket and then, as John clumsily tried to unbutton his shirt, began to kiss his way down the doctor's neck, finishing up around his collarbone, where he bit down, hard. John cried out and, unable to wait any longer, tore the shirt off over Sherlock's head carelessly. He captured his lips in another hungry kiss and pushed him down into the sofa, straddling his hips. 

Sherlock thrust upward, his erection rubbing against John's inner thigh. "John," he gasped, fingers pressing into the other man's lower back. "Please, John - " 

And John obliged, undoing Sherlock's belt, zipping down his trousers, shoving his pants down his thighs. Sherlock kicked both items of clothing down about his ankles and reached for John's waistband, but John knocked his hands to the side and, without warning, bent down to slip the head of Sherlock's cock into his mouth. His tongue swirled lazily about the head, drawing a delicious, guttural moan from Sherlock that sent lightning coursing through his veins. He swallowed it deeper, tongue flicking across the frenulum, down the thick bottom, and back up to the top. Sherlock squirmed below him, trying his hardest not to give in and fuck this wonderful mouth outright. 

"John," he whispered hoarsely, and tugged him up into a kiss. His other hand scrambled down to John's trousers, and this time John allowed him to unzip them and pull out his hard length. He palmed him once, twice, rotating his wrist as he stroked, enjoying the soft little noises it brought from John's throat. He brought both their pricks together and each ground into the other. John suckled at Sherlock's neck, teasing his nipples between his index and thumb with one hand and then stroking his way down his flat, white belly. He dragged his fingers down past his hipbones, past his groin, into his inner thigh, and Sherlock whimpered at the soft touch. "Fuck me," he hissed into John's ear, and reveled at the doctor's fierce reaction, his strong back arching, his fingertips digging into Sherlock's thighs. 

"Yes," John growled back, and scooted back so Sherlock could spread his legs wide apart. For a moment John sat back on his haunches and just stared at the man stretched out in front of him, savoring the sight of his swollen, leaking prick, his heavy-lidded eyes and panting mouth, his tangled dark hair. And then Sherlock said, simply, "please," and John could wait no longer; there was a bottle of unscented lotion on the coffee table, and he squeezed it generously into his palm before leaning back in and circling his fingers about Sherlock's entrance. 

The noises Sherlock was making were incredible, and it took quite a bit of will to slow down, to begin with a single finger and not simply thrust into him wildly. Instead he gently pumped in and out, taking care not to go too quickly, licking up and down Sherlock's cock as he went. He added a second finger, and then a third, twisting and scissoring inside him, all the while gently teasing the detective's heavy prick with his mouth. Sherlock quivered and moaned beneath him until, finally, he could wait no longer, and he pushed the head of his cock between his thighs. 

" _Now,_ " Sherlock gasped, and John slid into him as far as he could. They both cried out at once. Sherlock panted madly, his irises swallowed up by his pupils, and John caught his tongue in a tender kiss, not daring to move his lower body. The man was so tight and warm around him - the sensation was incredible. He grasped Sherlock's cock in his hand and slid up and down, and the detective's hips began to jerk spasmodically. "Fuck me," he hissed again, and this time John obliged, pushing in and out in a slow, steady pace. They rocked together, gentle at first, and then, as lust began to take over, faster, harder. John pumped Sherlock's cock to the time of his thrusts, and they both panted and moaned uncontrollably. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," John realized he was saying, and then, "you're so bloody gorgeous, Sherlock," and then fireworks were going off in his head, the universe was breaking apart around him, and he shuddered his orgasm deep into Sherlock. Sherlock came shortly after, spilling sticky and hot onto his own stomach, his eyes glazing over hard. 

John pulled out and collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, his head coming to rest right under his chin. They breathed heavy against each other, utterly spent and satisfied. 

They lay tangled in each other for a while, not sleeping, just enjoying the closeness between their two bodies. Something still bothered John, though, and he turned his chin up towards his detective. "Sherlock," he murmured, and the man's broad, pale chest twitched underneath his head in reply. "You weren't really interested in that woman, were you?" 

Sherlock's chest vibrated with laughter against his ear. "Of course not, John. That empty-brained harlot? Never." He placed a kiss on the top of John's head. "You're the only one I want, John. Only you." 


End file.
